


Winter Fuel

by TeaCub90



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Affection, Christmas Fluff, Christmas Jumpers, Cuddling & Snuggling, Drabbles, Drunken Shenanigans, Ficlets, Friendship/Love, Gen, Hugs, Humour, Story: The Adventure of the Blue Carbuncle, carols
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-08
Updated: 2020-12-23
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:55:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27947891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TeaCub90/pseuds/TeaCub90
Summary: Sherlock, John and 221B at Christmas-time.Latest entry:Note for the future: check the exact position of the hostess’ posh chocolate fountain before shooting, not after.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson
Comments: 2
Kudos: 14





	1. Exultation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _It helps that this time, Sherlock is wearing the reindeer antlers._

* * *

The strum of Sherlock’s violin is strained softly under the bow and stout beneath his fingers, the humming tune of _Silent Night_ wending its way through the lounge, a tenderness of music. John watches, his arms clutched loosely around himself as Sherlock’s hands control and contain the music within these four walls, serenading John with simple, festive beauty.

It helps that this time, Sherlock is wearing the reindeer antlers.

They’re gaudy things; a cliché green headband with two massive, brown, felt shapes atop and they look utterly ridiculous on Sherlock’s head, even coming close to putting out the lounge light a time or two They catch the lights strung up outside the lounge windows – a brand new set, purchased in Waitrose last year, the pair of them each holding onto one of Rosie’s hands as she dragged them down the aisles – the traffic-light shades bouncing off the swell of the fabric. John plays briefly with the idea of taking a photo but finds a far greater peace in leaving his phone aside; in simply stopping, and sitting, and listening.

That, and Sherlock – even with his eyes closed as he sounds out the melody with the trimness of his talented fingers – would know _exactly_ what he was up to in a second. (And besides, he already took a selfie of himself earlier, he and Rosie posing together after she dug the antlers out of Mrs Hudson’s Christmas drawer and held them out importantly with the instructions to ‘Put it _on,_ Daddy Sherlock!’ and he of course absolutely unwilling to disobey her. She had found the whole thing utterly amusing, giggling and balanced neatly on one of Sherlock’s arms as he held up the other to take a snap of them both, sticking his tongue out at the lens, the pair of them complete children. John tries not to think of it as Sherlock making up for lost silliness from his own childhood, but it’s wonderful to see them both so happy).

He sings along quietly in his head; raising his eyebrows, impressed even after all this time as Sherlock plays out the necessary strain of the last two lines, _Sleep in heavenly peace_ , falling from his mouth in a barely-remembered half-whisper. Amazing, honestly, the things that come back to you, he considers and distracts himself from that thought by standing and applauding. It’s just the two of them, after all (three if you count Rosie, currently snoozing on the sofa, covered by Sherlock’s coat. Four if you squint and count Mrs Hudson, squiffy and giggly and tucked up in bed downstairs after too much sherry).

‘Marvellous,’ he compliments, clearly unable to help himself even after all this time. Sherlock smiles and bows anyway, as though he’s performing for royalty; the antlers make to slip off his head and John huffs a laugh, reaches out to correct them and then seized by another thought, nicks them and places them onto his own head; tries to, anyway. His head is larger than Sherlock’s; stouter. Stupider, the detective might say, whenever he’s in a particular snippy mood – and yet he’s worn these ridiculous things tonight, just for John’s amusement.

‘Very nice, John.’ Sherlock whips his bow over his shoulder with an intrigued, raised eyebrow, ever the consummate professional. John hums, smiling, turning the piece over in his hands.

‘Just a couple of stags, really,’ he comments aloud, absent-mindedly as he turns the felt piece over in his hands, picking at the tacky gold thread and it makes Sherlock laugh, which he chalks up as a win. They’ve even both been shot to boot, he thinks – but he bites that particular thought back, bites it back _hard_ and tosses the antlers aside on the coffee-table with more force than necessary before busying himself with stepping into Sherlock’s space for a hug instead, pressing his face against the soothing satin of the dressing gown, hands winding their way around Sherlock’s waist.

He tips his forehead against his chest, breathing out against one of those soft cotton t-shirt that he so often puts in the washing machine, along with Rosie’s leggings and his own socks. Sherlock’s arms immediately become a cloak around him, his own face buried reassuringly in John’s hair, the whole of him a grounding pillar, his violin still hanging from his hand and there’s something flattering in that, John considers, rubbing his cheek against the satin; something _trusting._

He inhales the clean scent of Mrs Hudson’s Ariel detergent, the faintest lavender whiff of Lenor fabric softener for a moment more, his nose pressed near the steady _thump-thump_ of Sherlock’s heart before he makes himself step back and away.

‘Another brew?’ he clears his throat, aware of the softness of Sherlock’s gaze upon him and then decides, _Ah, Hell with it_ and stands himself up on tiptoes to anchor his arms around Sherlock’s shoulders, breathing him in all over again just like he breathes in his music. He thinks he can hear Sherlock chuckle as he places his violin aside with a careful clunk and then heartily responds in kind, his arms wrapping themselves around John with something like happiness and he knows, he knows, down to his bones, that he’s not being laughed at – rather, he’s being adored, embraced, loved. Kept safe by the one person he lets close enough to admit that actually, _yes,_ he does in fact care to be kept safe every now and then, both from the world and, just occasionally, from himself.

‘Love one,’ Sherlock positively beams down at him once he draws back, his milk-like skin flushed warm by the fire; no longer as smooth as it was ten years ago but lined by life, and by the laughter he seems to give so much more of these days, his blue eyes glinting like aeroplane lights on snow. John hums and props his cheek against his shoulder, raising a hand to muss his hair, however briefly, before he finally lets Sherlock go and wanders into the kitchen, stiff but satisfied, lethargic with the sheer force of Sherlock’s affection, to put the kettle on.

He’s getting the teabags out when he hears the gentle plucking of the strings once more; puts his head around the kitchen door to check Rosie is still sleeping on the sofa, smiling a little as he spots Sherlock peering at her over his violin whilst tuning it up, clearly checking the same. Then, as their eyes meet, he strikes up the soft, opening chords of _Oh Come All Ye Faithful_ and John sags with a hum and a headshake against the doorframe; remembers one halfway-decent December long ago when he randomly and tipsily attended a carol service with Mike after one too many pints, both of them standing in the back of a church near St. Bart’s (he can’t even remember the name of the place, wonders if perhaps Mike would) deliberately whispering the first line of ‘O come, let us adore him,’ to each other in the pews and giggling like a pair of schoolkids.

He turns on his heel to hide his grin and makes the tea; adds an extra lump of sugar to Sherlock’s cup; goes digging for the bourbons, whispering along under his breath by memory or perhaps instinct alone as he wanders back through, clutching two mugs and the leftover package of biscuits and watching the violin bow, slipping up and down the strings like a boat on rocking water, controlled by its captain with perfection, with ease; a ship that sails and carries John to another plain, to calmer clouds. To a quiet kind of exultation, gently set apart from the chasing and the bullets and the occasional bomb in their lives.

Smiling to himself, he crosses the room to sit down carefully and quietly next to Rosie on the sofa; strokes her hair as she snores and snuffles, sips his tea and simply _listens -_ lets himself be carried just a short while more.

*


	2. Peace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ‘Was that strictly necessary?’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I lied. This is no longer a one-shot. I had a few more ideas for Sherlock&John fics at Christmas time; rather than dump them all separately like I usually do, I thought I'd provide a focus point and band them all together here. 
> 
> Today's entry involves bad Christmas music and catharsis. (Yes, I hate that Slade song that much).

* * *

‘Was that strictly necessary?’ John asks dryly, arms folded as he stares down at the remains of the radio, battered by the bullets – the same type buried in their wall in fact, in the yellow smiley-face above the sofa, from the same gun currently smoking on the arm of Sherlock’s chair.

‘It’s a terrible song,’ Sherlock comments silkily, blowing at the top of the pistol cannon before he re-collapses onto a lethargic state – at least with the sense to turn the bloody safety on first – and John huffs, leans against the counter, rubs the back of his head. At least the kettle didn’t get hit, he thinks, drawing it protectively closer to him at the thought, stopping to pull the radio plug out of the wall. No need wasting electricity on that which doesn’t need it, he considers mildly and is quite glad not to get shocked in the process.

‘Only came home for lunch,’ he murmurs to himself, and is somehow reassured by the nearby sound of Sherlock’s scoff.

‘You have enough of this forced merriment at the surgery, John, don’t be absurd.’

John smirks at the floor at that, remembering the tacky tinsel and Santa hats and cheap cards and absurdity that surround the receptionist’s desk; the mistletoe covertly-attached to his office door, the fluttering excuses of the nurses and other doctors and even patients to try and get a kiss or two, which would be lovely and flattering if they weren’t British, and therefore really rather awkward about it. 

And to be fair, Sherlock is right – it is a terrible song. He wonders if Sherlock can tell, at a glance – could ever tell, maybe, from the obligatory study he could give of his cane, to inspecting the heel of his shoe – that John found himself – or rather, lost himself - that first Christmas after Afghanistan, wandering through London, the tinsel and the lights and Christmas shoppers alien factors from another world. Wonders if he can see him, ten years ago, pathetic and shrivelled, clutching his cane in HMV while desperately trying to find a present for Harry, realising it would be good manners to send something to Bill as a sign of gratitude for saving his life, as it was, and on the heel of that contemplating the potential awkwardness in scribbling a card for Clara and belatedly realising he didn’t even know her new address.

That – surrounded by angry mums and screaming kids with multiple shopping-bag – those three people consisted of his entire list of being; the entire world of Afghanistan, mates and officers and good men, fallen away to the other side of the globe.

That he would have given anything for the sound of bullets over the sound of that sincerely fucking stupid song that seemed to be played endlessly, no matter where he went - wishing everyone Happy Christmas, asking a bunch of really idiotic rhetorical questions that he can just imagining Sherlock bolting out the sardonic answers to, and ordering him to look to the future now, when back then he could barely see tonight.

He clears his throat; realises he’s seizing his knife hard; blinks down at the bread and butter. At a glance out to the lounge, with no noise to trouble him and to drive him quickly out of the kitchen with bad news or bad music, he gets out another lot of bread and makes two rounds of ham and tomato, and roots around to find crisps in the drawer, digs out some cheese and onion; brings both plates back to the lounge where Sherlock is coiling, apparently and once again deducing the life cycle and habits of the ceiling.

‘Here. Eat,’ John commands and Sherlock gives a scowl and takes the plate, sitting up to take a nibble. John collapses in his chair and curls up, aware of the movements on his right, the reassurance of company and breath, rifling through the newspaper for a case. The Christmas tree is unlit at this time of day; the lights over the mantlepiece outside the window are switched off and the Santa hat just makes the skull somehow look like it’s drinking at two o’clock in the afternoon.

‘You’re buying a new radio,’ he mutters, over the contented sounds of munching.

‘Hm,’ Sherlock comments and they leave it at that, letting the sounds of London outside the window do the talking. This, this will do nicely for now.

*


	3. Sweet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Note for the future: check the exact position of the hostess’ posh chocolate fountain _before_ shooting, not after. Features giggling, drunkeness and Christmas jumpers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I honestly don't have any sort of agenda for these ficlets; I'm just looking for ways to find cheer during this COVID Christmas season. There's no particular endgame here; it's just Sherlock and John being Sherlock and John. You can friendship them, you can romanticise them - either way, there's going to be a lot of hugs along the way.

* * *

They’re both drunk and stumbling through the door of 221B, giggling and high on the conclusion of a successful case, a pair of matching Christmas jumpers on their persons – blue for Sherlock, red for John – overheating their bodies following a lengthy but successful chase through a successful businesswoman’s mansion that proved to be pretty lengthy in its own right and splattered with drink stains and fast-drying milk chocolate. Maybe they’ll give them to Billy Wiggins, John considers, with that sense of charity that comes with the conclusion of a job well-done.

Holding each other up – John’s arm around Sherlock’s waist and the detective’s arm sprawled around his neck – they crawl up the stairs together, holding each other up and chattering over the cases. They haven’t had one like it in a while, but it had all the happy trimmings; a rich heiress, an unexpected murder in a locked room, a chocolate fountain and greed over a goose and a blue sapphire besides. The fact that the sapphire is to be sold and the proceedings going to charity bolsters John’s mood all the more; not even the fact that a couple of the constables snapped pictures of them in their Christmas jumpers can spoil his mood.

‘You okay?’ he asks over a chuckle as they reach their door, fumble with it before they manage to unlock it; it was cold outside and the chase and the champagne both have managed to warm their blood, but they (stupidly) left the window open on the way out after an experiment of Sherlock’s set off the fire-alarm and now a cool breeze from the London air is flowing in. Annoying, chilly and John stumbles across the room to close it, only turning to find Sherlock has collapsed on the sofa, looking purely comedic with his Belstaff over his jumper, melted chocolate all over his face and giggling fit to bust. ‘Sherlock, you alright?’

‘Yes,’ Sherlock manages – or something like it, turning his gaze upwards; his face, normally so pale and thoughtful, is utterly creased, reddening with laughter. It should be scary, somehow, and it still is, sort of – the prospect of Sherlock Holmes losing control _is_ a scary one, non-stop – but the chocolate smearing his collar, his neck and cheeks just makes it look endearing. Note for the future: check the exact position of the hostess’ posh chocolate fountain _before_ shooting, not after.

‘You want some tea?’ he asks; Sherlock is _still_ giggling – cackling like the most malevolent kind of wizard who’s just managed to turn his mortal enemy into a toad (and that could range from anyone from Moriarty to that twat Sebastian at the bank) – and he can’t help but tilt his head at the sight of him; blue and chocolatey and much like a character from Thomas the Tank Engine gone utterly, utterly rogue. ‘Sherlock?’

He cricks his neck in an attempt to pull himself together somewhat; common sense stretches through the fog like one of Sherlock’s hands, his deductions on a really good day when he’s at his sharpest, and really, when isn’t he? Apart from right now, obviously.

‘Yes,’ Sherlock finally manages a choking affirmative, a nod, ‘Please,’ he manages to add, panting the word out and John makes no comment; simply limps through to put the kettle on. Filling the kettle and leaning against the counter, the hotly rattling water at odds with the high, bright sounds ringing through like a bell, he cranes his neck to watch Sherlock through the door.

‘You alright?’ he asks and gets a thumbs-up for his trouble before it falls back against Sherlock’s trembling stomach. 

‘Oh, John,’ he wheezes. ‘Oh, that was – _wonderful._ Especially when you,’ he stumbles over the words, holding up both index and middle finger and making a shooting sound that causes John’s mouth to twitch. ‘The hell were you _thinking?’_ It’s high-pitched and delighted, but clearly not a criticism. John bites back a grin, tongue in cheek as he looks to the floor; tries not to feel that weird triumph that flutters up with managing to make Sherlock Holmes laugh.

‘She had a _sword,’_ he shrugs, attempting some semblance of dignity. ‘Her thug – her – her walking mammal for a bloody bodyguard, seriously, where do they pick these people up?’ he asks, as Sherlock collapses anew, ‘what, does Mycroft have a special agency, or – ’

‘Yes!’ Sherlock practically screeches with joy and John chuffs, covers his eyes and trembling a quiet giggle into his hands. When he looks up again, he catches Sherlock, tongue sticking out with impudent glee, wiping watering eyes with his thumb – John can’t help but recall that night in the Underground, and the bomb, and his slowing heart-rate giving way to sheer rage ripped apart by the relief of familiarity, the sound of Sherlock Holmes’ laugh after two years of silence.

Then again, that was a _bomb._ This was just an heiress with a sapphire, a bunch of alarmed party-guests and a rather distinct goose problem. And a lot of running and yelling, to boot. The difference is altogether rather a nice one, and at Christmas, too.

That, and a _lot_ of champagne. Perks of the job when one infiltrates a Christmas party, even if they ended up arriving wearing entirely the wrong kind of outfit. He pours the tea – hot and strong, adds in two sugars and listens to Sherlock’s wheezing laughter finally peter out into quiet giggling, matched only by the clink-clink and tap-tap of the spoon as he stirs it contemplatively around the tea-mugs; wanders across stiffly, to offer one of them to Sherlock, who reaches over with a graceful hand, obliging and grinning, to relieve him of it. He meets John’s eyes over the rim, slurps loudly like a gurgling drain and for some reason, it’s enough to set them both off this time, spilling tea in soft thuds all over Mrs Hudson’s carpet.

‘Need to get that chocolate off your face,’ John comments as he sits carefully down beside him – _definitely_ limping now, needs to warm up and distract himself from the comedown after a case, the older he gets, the more he realises exactly what Sherlock means by it – usually would go to their chairs, but this is nicer, frankly and he can’t be bothered to go and put the fire on just yet. ‘Drink up.’

They sip for a moment – good, hot tea that soothes their chilly throats, sobers them slightly, John’s gentle gulping next to Sherlock’s soft slurps – and fall back against the sofa together, both kicking their shoes off and putting their feet up in tandem, John feeling the relief of having his leg elevated, feeling Sherlock’s sniggering shudders finally, _finally_ give way to quiet breaths next to him. He resembles a living, breathing marble cupcake at present and John huffs, puts his tea aside.

‘Yeah, we really do need to get you cleaned up.’ He reaches out to ruffle Sherlock’s hair; several strands at the edge of his temple have become stuck together, the chocolate making it rock-hard.

‘Mmm…’ Sherlock shifts; takes a rough swipe at the chocolate covering his cheek and takes a sample, making a mental assessment. ‘Could lick it off,’ he offers, quite seriously. ‘It’s decent enough.’

John chuffs. ‘Er. No. No thanks.’ But he does lick his own thumb and – rather fruitlessly – wipes at a patch above Sherlock’s eyebrow. ‘Nah, yeah. Hot water, I think. Shower for you – once you can stand up.’

Sherlock manages a nod, raising another hand to wipe his eyes as he takes another gulp of tea before he shifts, moves closer to John and drops his head on his shoulder.

‘Oh, hello,’ John observes the curls laden over his right shoulder, something in him moved – _always_ his right shoulder, _never_ his left – and Sherlock rumbles back, quite clearly and suddenly sleepy. The mug he’s still holding threatens to drop, his hands loosening in that anticipatory and universal Holmesian slip of _Never mind the ruined décor, someone else will clean up_ and John promptly scoops it out of his hand with his free one, hisses a little as the liquid spills over the side, tea leaking down over the coffee-table. All a bit of a mess, he considers, they’re a mess, they’re _making_ a mess, all spilled over and spilled into each other, and Sherlock – Sherlock who is slumping against him, face pressing into John’s chest, long limbs and legs unravelling like ribbons with a _very_ clear indication of falling asleep fairly soon.

It’s really one of a few select times in his life when John gets to feel like the taller one, for a change and so he just hums and wraps his arms around Sherlock’s shoulders, lets the detective wind an arm around his waist and press his chocolatey face and chocolatey hands right into his expensive new Christmas jumper.

Oh well, John considers, resting his cheek atop soft curls, hands cupping sharp elbows through wool and half-murmuring nonsense in the calming quiet of the flat that always curls around them like a friendly fog, its own kind of blanket. They only really brought these things for the case, after all and if worse comes to worse, Mycroft is bound to know of some posh launderette in London that can tackle the stains.

*


End file.
